Deadman's Rise: A Hero Reborn
by Bearsbandit53
Summary: Tamriel stands on the brink and as war threatens all who call the land home. A hero from the past will be the salvation for some and the damnation of others. Lost in time and alone, the Champion of Cyrodiil must stand as the world descends into chaos and destruction if there is to any hope, but will it be enough?
1. Prologue

Hello Everyone!

Here is a new story that I hope you will enjoy. It is somewhat based off a similar story I had started a while ago but did not like it. So I changed a few things around and, well, here is the result. I hope you like it!

If you do, please let me know what you think and feel free to favorite and follow. It lets me know you want more and I appreciate it!

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Deadman's Rise: A Hero Reborn

Prologue

Laughter filled the air between the walls of the Roxey Inn. The tables were covered with delicious food and goblets were continuously running low on mead and wine only to be refilled by the serving girls frantically running around the inn answering the calls of the men and women raising their goblets desperate for more.

A warm fire crackled on the far side of the room across from the entrance to the kitchen. It's light slowly overcame the dying light of the falling sun, the last of its rays desperately trying to make their way in through the windows of the large room.

Night was fast approaching and the last of the travelers making their way along this section of the Red Ring Road were pouring into the inn seeking shelter, good food and merry conversation. Through for many travelers choosing the Roxey Inn as their lodging that night, they were surprised to see a more than a couple of dozen battlemages of the Shadow Legion spread out among the well worn tables and chairs as they talked amongst themselves as well as other travelers not part of their band.

Many of the battlemages wore their armor as they sat and ate. It's distinctive design was light and allowed them to use their magic affectively on the battlefield. It also made them easily recognizable to most of the people throughout the Empire and everyone in the inn that evening.

However, only a few of the inn's patrons that evening could recognize the commanding figure sitting in the center of legionnaires, flanked on all sides by his the men and women he led. It was easy to see he was tall even when sitting down, and the imperial with his tanned skin, short brown hair and brown eyes was easy to pass over when scanning a crowd. But he was no average fellow, not for a second, and even the most knowledgeable travelers took a few seconds, or even minutes, to recognize him. When they did, it was difficult for them not to stare for a short span of time and whispered to whomever they were with who they had the honor to gaze upon. After all, it is not everyday that one sets eyes on General Jakson Haxell, commander of the Imperial Shadow Legion, right hand of Potentate Ocato of Firsthold, and the fabled Hero of Kvatch and Cyrodiil that fought along side of Emperor Martin Septim as the Empire was sieged by the realms of Oblivion.

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Jakson Haxell toyed with the remainder of his food that wasted away on his plate. If hunger burned within him, his thoughts were numb to it as he stared absently into the crowd of the inn. Beside him, a cheerful conversation continued between legates Atrinia and Sacciusus about their recent campaign in Morrowind assisting House Redoran successfully push back the argonian invaders that had taken advantage of Morrowind's abysmal state. With each freshly filled goblet of wine, the conversation grew bolder and possible strategies that could have been used became more and more unrealistic.

It was a discussion that Jakson would have enjoyed taking part in on normal days, but today he had pushed against his legates' attempt to drag him into the conversation to the point they had stopped trying and left him alone. He rubbed his eyes as an uneasy feeling wormed its way through his gut, but for the life of him he could not discern the cause of it. The campaign over the past few months in Morrowind had gone well and soon he could be back in the capital and his home. All was well with the world as far as he could tell. But something still nagged at him.

He rubbed his eyes as a feeling of fatigue overcame them. With thoughts of a comfortable bed calling him to rise to his feet, he told his men goodnight and made his way to the staircase that led up to the comfortable rooms above.

He swung the heavy wooden door to his room shut as he stepped inside his lodgings for the evening. The large room sported a wide bed, a wardrobe and a spacious desk. It was easily the best room in the inn, and effortlessly managed to fit his few trunks filled with books, maps and any personal belongings he dared to bring with him, with plenty of room to spare in the rest of the room.

He sat out a desk and poured of some of the contents from a bottle of mead into a fresh goblet. He took sip and stared out the window that the desk sat in front of. As the last rays of sun dimmed, he could still see the outline of the Imperial City in the distance. The felling in his gut beckoned him towards the city as he looked upon it. He slowly tapped the fingers of one of his hands along the top of the desk as he drank the mead and started out at the night's sky and pondered if the feeling meant anything at all. He sighed, and looked longingly towards the bed. After riding all day, he knew what he needed was a good nights sleep.

He stood up and moved to the edge of the bed. He detached his knife from his belt and moved to put it onto the bed's end table where it would be in easy reach. But, his hand stilled and his eyes were held captive by the sight of the sheathed blade.

 _It would be so easy, you know,_ mumbled the voice that had become far to common inside of his head.

 _I'm sure,_ he thought back in response to the voice and put the blade on the table and eased onto the bed.

 _Jakson, you know as well as I do that we can only put it off so long. The sooner you do it then the sooner we can return to the Shivering Isles and take our rightful place,_ echoed Sheogorath's voice against Jakson's attempt to quiet the deadric prince.

As the Oblivion Crises unfolded and grew in threat, when word that a new deadric disturbance had occurred in Niben Bay, he had approached it thinking it was another Oblivion gate that had opened up. Foolishly, he had thought that what lie through the three headed gate could be a boon that could assist with the crisis at hand. Siding with the Mad God, he had defeated and released Jyggalag. As a reward, he was then allowed to assume Sheogorath's station in the Shivering Isles. The power that came with it was impressive, and he used it effectively to combat the Oblivion Crisis, which no doubt allowed him to be victorious in more than one battle.

However, once the crisis was resolved, a new presence began to emerge in his mind. As he ventured to the Shivering Isles and used its power, the voice of Sheogorath grew stronger. Now Sheogorath's presence within his mind was strong, and he only wanted one thing: to be free and regain his true, unhindered power. And he had told Jakson was to be his vessel. But only death could bring life, and for Sheogorath to be free, Jakson had to die, so Sheogorath chanted happily in his head everyday.

To prevent Sheogorath from growing too strong, he had ceased using his powers, ever fearful of what that foreign presence might be able to do with added strength. Jakson knew that when he died, the true Sheogorath would rise again and rule his domain, but Jakson would not give in to the demand willingly. The Mad God would have to wait to have his body as Jakson still had a long way to go before he closed his eyes a final time.

 _But imagine the power we would have_ , exclaimed Sheogorath as he read into Jakson's thoughts. _Besides, you wouldn't exactly die. We would become one and think of all the fun we could have. Cheese and torture for everyone!_

Jakson ignored the voice, focusing instead on trying to get his mind to relax as doubt and worry continued to well up within him. As he started to lay down on the bed, a quick knock on the door cause him to rise.

"Enter," he ordered. The guards that stood outside of his door would only let something of importance disturb him.

The door swung open and one of his battlemages stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He began to speak at once, and did so to the point, not wanting to waste time. "Sir, I have just received a message from Potentate Ocato. Three members of the Elder Council have been assassinated and an attempt has already been made on his life. He has requested you make all haste in retuning to the city."

Jakson quickly rose out of bed. "Tell him I am on my way and should be there in a few hours," he ordered, thankful for the magic that allowed him to make telepathic contact with people far away from himself. "Also inform Grand Master Steffan, Arch-Mage Bothiel, and Legate Acicician of the situation."

The battlemage gave a nod and closed his eyes to send the messages. "All have been informed, sir," he announced a few minutes later. "Legate Acicician and Bothiel are moving to reinforce the Potentate with the battlemages and mages available in the city. Grand Master Steffan has already been informed and has deployed the Blades throughout the city under command of Captain Bruush. The city guard has also locked down the city. They are now waiting for our arrival."

"Then we best not disappoint," said Jakson as he began to don his armor.

Minutes later he stepped out of the inn, his armor gleaming in the moonlight. A dozen other battlemages stood next to their horses ready to move out. He would be leading the mounted men into the city ahead of the others. They would follow on foot and hopefully the situation would be settled by the time they arrived. It would take them few hours to reach the city and he wasted no time in ordering his men to mount up.

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The hours passed by as the mounted battlemages of the Shadow Legion thundered down the Red Ring Road keeping the Imperial City to their left as they slowly made the round edging towards the entrance. As they day turned into the next under the gaze of the full moon, they thundered into Weye. The town was quite as usually and the sound of the galloping horses echoed off the wooden buildings densely surrounding the road. They continued through the town, a few lights coming to life through the windows as they stormed passed, and came to a stop as they were halted by a group of imperial guards standing at the entrance of Talos Bridge.

The guards immediately recognized him and came to attention. "General," said the guard in the center of the group. "You are needed in the Imperial Palace. Potentate Ocato is waiting for you." The guard then efficiently barked at his fellow guards to stand aside allowing Jakson and his men continued their way.

Jakson and his men entered the city gate taking them into the Talos Plaza district. Even late at night the city was always loud, even in this wealthy district. Yet, where there was usually noise aplenty, the city was unnervingly silent as dozens of guard patrolled the streets. Any of the tens of thousands of residents that were found outside were ordered to return indoors or be arrested.

While normally they would have dismounted before entering the city, Jakson had no intention of giving up their speed and they moved their horses through the most prosperous district of the city without caring about how they might be disturbing its wealthy residents. The horses breathed hard as they were urged to go even faster through the large district, but their speeded was needed as Jakson worried what they might find.

The Empire was in dire straits, and Ocato was one of the few people capable of holding what remained of it together. When Black Marsh and Elsweyr had succeeded from the Empire, event had only become worse following the trend that started with the Oblivion Crisis. But still, it could become much worse and with various plots and factions rising in every part of the Empire, and the last thing they needed was a major disturbance in the government that needed every talented administrator it desperately needed.

After a few minutes of hard riding, the battlemages finally made it to the center of the city. They immediately jumped off their horses as they came to the palace. A few battlemages went off from the group while the others followed Jakson inside. They knew what they had to do.

As the doors to the great tower swung open, immediately Jakson could smell the blood in the air. Guards and battlemages were stationed everywhere inside, and as he made it into the Council room, he found the source of the smell as his gaze settled onto two bodies that laid crumpled on the floor in a collective pool of their own blood. The sight perplexed him at first as he wondered why the bodies had been left there over the past few hours since he had heard of the attack, but then he realized that bodies must have been new additions to the onslaught. Looking at them, he recognized them as two councilors belonging to the Elder Council. More importantly, they were two of Ocato's allies that had greatly helped him keep the Empire steady over the past decade

"Sir," said Legate Atrinia who stood by his side. "The Arch-Mage."

Jakson followed the legate's eyes and found the arch-mage pacing back and forth on the other side of room surrounded by legionnaires and mages. She must have felt his gaze for she soon turned and spotted him, motioning him over.

"What the situation, Arch-Mage?" he asked as he came to a stop in front of Bothiel.

"Just as we feared," responded the Arch-Mage as worry plagued her Bosmer features. "My mages and your battlemages have set every defensive measure we can think of after the attacks, but they still managed to slip through. They killed the two councilors before we even saw them and your legate Acicician engaged them and followed them as they escaped the palace. He just got word that he managed to slay one of them in the sewers, but has not caught up with the rest yet."

"Do you have any guesses to who they are?" asked Jakson.

"The one the legate and his men killed was a High Elf. Captain Bruush believes that they may be agents of the Thalmor. Ocato has been warning us of them for years now, but its hard to believe they would strike out like this."

"These are dangerous times," said Jakson. "Many more will try to advance their causes with the Empire suffering as it is. But how about the Potentate?"

"In this last attack, he suffered a wound on his arm, but we fixed him up. He's waiting for you in his chambers." She motioned over to one of the large doors on the edge of the room, its door flanked by battlemages. "I have a bad feeling, general," she said as her tired eyes looked down onto the floor.

"Do not worry,Bothiel," said Jakson encouragingly. "It will take more than this to do any real harm to us.

"I hope so," she said looking back at him and giving him a smile. "Come, we must not waste anymore time." The Arch-Mage made her way to the door and Jakson followed.

The guards opened the door and Jakson stepped inside, leaving his own men on the other side. A few battlemages stood around the room with their eyes closed and using their abilities to detect and protect from and enemy incursions. Ocato stood over a large table with a map laid over it. The left sleeve of his robe was slashed and stained with blood, though his skin underneath was healed with only a small red line showing where the wound once stood. His back was too him and the Arch-Mage as they entered the room.

 _Oh oh oh, theres something deliciously awful going on here,_ sang Sheogorath's voice inside his head. He tried to shut it out, but the feeling of doubt and dread that he had felt in the inn came back to life with full force as it twisted its way in his gut, and made it difficult to push the Mad God down.

"Potentate Ocato," called Jakson, careful not to let the dread from the unknown cause be heard in his voice. "I have come as you requested."

Ocato did not respond vocally, but stirred as if woken from a slumber as he began turn towards Jakson. As the high elf turned around, Jakson's eyes went wide as the front of his friend turned to face him. The front of his robes were stained with fresh blood that ran down his body from the long, clean gash in his throat. His eyes were glazed over. They were the eyes of a deadman and one that was kept standing by the will of magic.

But as Jakson's eyes took in the site for just a fraction of a second, it was precious time wasted, and his body screamed as he saw the ghostly blade of a bound sword emerge from his stomach. Its transparent tip dripped with his blood. As he stared down in horror, another blade exited close to the first. He head began to spin, and the edges of his vision darkened as the room blurred. He felt the blades pulled free from his back with a sickening wet sound and he sank to his knees.

Arch-Mage Bothiel walked around to his front holding two bound swords dripping with Jakson's blood in each of her hands. He looked up at her face, and saw a devious smile and smoldering eyes retuning his gaze down at him. She waved her hands and the swords vanished. One of the battlemages, one of his men, came up to her and handed her a towel which she used to wipe off his blood that stained her hands. But as he looked at the battlemage, he realized that the man was just as dead as Ocato as she looked at nothing with dead eyes, though he had no wounds that were visible. Jakson looked around the room and every eye he found marked the same fate for the rest of the battlemages. All were dead, their bodies the toys of magic. Jakson opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough and blood spilled over his lips and down his chin.

"Please, understand that I do this because it is necessary, General," said Bothiel in a soft voice as she looked down on him. "But it is not a poor way to go, yes? The people of the Empire will sing you praises for how you fought against the attackers that killed Ocato and overwhelmed you, not to mention the praises that will be sung of your other deeds. It will surely help your wife and child with your loss. A mercy I think, yes?"

 _You should thank her for this,_ echoed Sheogorath with excitement. _Finally, we will be free. Free. Free!_

The rantings of the mad voice caused Jakson to grimace. _No!_ he screamed to himself. Fire burned into his body and he harnessed it into his hand before striking out at Bothiel as he lunged off his knees towards her.

But the Arch-Mage seemed too much a foe for Jakson who was weak and at death's door. The flame sputtered to smoke as it wrapped itself around her shimmering barrier and as Jakson charged her she raised her hands and the floors buckled as a wave of magicka swept across the room and slammed into Jakson. He flew back, crashing into the stone wall behind him, creating a small crater in the thick stone. He fell to the ground, broken, as dust and flecks of stone settled over him.

He tried to move but could only feel pain. He tried to speak but blood only escaped his lips. Bothiel smiled and Sheogorath laughed and chanted in his skull. With everything he had left, he desperately tried to hold on, tried to fight. But as one second followed another he knew he was close to the edge.

No noise seemed to be able to pierce his ears, but he watched as Bothiel gave out an order and the battlemages began attacking their fellow dead. The bodies were fresh enough that blood spilled out eagerly onto the floor as the dead fought amongst themselves.

Beside Bothiel, a shimmer trailed through the air as a tall altmer clad in a black robe appeared beside her, whispering into her ear. What he said Jakson did not know, but it did not matter as one of his dead battlemages stepped in front of him, cutting off his sight of the two traitors.

He recognized the soldier. Hrond was his name. A nord with deep green eyes that was a new addition to the legion and showed tremendous talent in the magical arts, something uncommon for a nord. The quaestor raised his sword as his dead eyes looked past Jakson.

Once, twice, thrice the battlemage brought his sword down onto Jakson. Each time the pain became a little less. Like a dream, he felt himself falling to his side as the crumpled battlemage crumpled to the ground in front of him. Anger boiled inside him, but that feeling and all others were numbed.

 _I want to live,_ he screamed in his mind, but he was slipping into darkness. The last thing he saw was his men and Ocato falling to the ground, their purposes finished. As his vision faded, he looked at Bothiel and her compatriot who just stood their looking at him. He looked at them while Sheogorath screamed and laughed in his mind with joy. With all the energy he had, he held their gaze until the darkness finally swallowed him and his was pulled from this world as death wrapped its cold embrace around him.

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A light. He saw a light. It was faint, but it was there, shining dimly so far away from him. It was the only thing that he could make out in the darkness that surrounded him. Jakson reached for it and his arm sluggishly, slowed by some resistance. He uncurled his hand when it came to rest before the light, stretching out his fingers trying so desperately to grab the light.

Peace had overwhelmed his body, but it was a peace he did not want. No, he wanted to live and stretched feverishly for the glowing orb that looked like a full moon. Oh, how he wanted it.

He tried to yell, but words would not come. Instead, bubbles escaped from his mouth, as if he were in water. Confused, he tried to move, but for all his desire which was quickly clearing his numb mind, he knew he could not reach it. He began to panic. The desire to live resonated within him and demanded to be satisfied. But once again his vision began to fade as his body turned cold. He stopped moving for he knew it to be in vain. He had lost. He could not go on.

But fate had other plans for him as the dimly glowing orb wavered as a dark object floated between it and Jakson. Looking up, he wondered what it was, but before he could discern its nature, his vision of it rippled as a dark shape moved away from it and towards him. Casually, he watched it, unsure of what it was. But then a shape that he recognized as an arm sprang from it, and a hand wrapped firmly around his own that had tried to seize the dim light.

Suddenly, he felt himself being pulled up. The darkness faded away as he could see more and more. The dark shape that had grabbed him became clear and took the shape and color of a man, who himself was being pulled along by a rope tied around his waist.

Confused, his mind had trouble understanding what he was seeing, but then the man blurred as the area around him when he pierced a barrier above. Jakson was pulled toward the barrier. Closer and closer he came. Then he too was pulled through.

And he breathed! He breathed a lungful of air so sweet it almost made him sick, but he eagerly gulped for more. But with another pull he was yanked from the water and thrown onto his back against the wooden hull of a small boat.

As he breathed in more air he looked into the sky. There above him was the full moon. It was just as he had seen it before he had entered the city. It was full and bright and filled him with warmth as air filled his lungs. But confusion continued to cloud his mind and the confusion increased as two men stepped above him, both looking down with watchful eyes. The rest of their faces were buried in shadow.

"I guess you were right," said the first with a gruff voice. "He is alive."

"I told you I saw someone down there," said the second with excitement. "And look at his amor; he belongs to the legion. He must be from Solitude."  
"Yeah," agreed the first. "Trying to escape and hide under the water. Well it isn't his lucky day, is it?"

"Nope," answered the second as he raised his booted foot over Jakson's head.

Jakson did not feel the impact as it struck him. He simply retreat into the silent darkness.

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Let me know what you think and tune in next time!


	2. Chapter 1

Here is the next, and technically the first, chapter of Deadman's Rise. Thank you tall the few of you that have shown your support. With it, I am confident we can make this story great!

Please let me know what you think by leaving a review, and if you haven't done so already, feel free to follow and favorite if you find me worthy!

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The smell of dirt and human waste filled the air as the busy sounds of Jakson's surroundings slowly invaded his senses. Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes. It was dark, but just barely so signaling either the end of the day or the beginning. As his vision came into focus, he realized he was laying on his side in cold mud. He struggled to sit up, but the pain throughout his body caused him to still.

He took a deep breath and tried again. He pushed through the pain and brought his hands before him, but they were difficult to manage. He looked and realized his wrists were bound together, but he kept on. He pushed himself off the ground and sat himself up in the mud. He found his feet to also be bound at the ankles, so he stretched his legs out so he could sit flat. Looking over the parts of his body he could see, he was surprised to see no wounds. And while his body was definitely in pain, it was not pain that was due to stab wounds he so clearly remembered receiving.

His confusion increased as he realized he wore worn and faded leather armor, the same type given to the common soldier of the Imperial Legion, though it seemed somewhat different than he remembered the design to be, but just only. So he sat there, looking down at himself and wondering what on Nirn was going on.

"So I see you finally decided to wake up," said an old face near him.

Looking up, Jakson realized he was surrounded by a few others, all equally dirty and bound inside a large iron cell. Glancing around, it was clear they were in some military camp. It reminded him of a legion camp though it seemed much less organized. What were easily identified as soldiers walked around outside of the cell. Most wore leather armor covered in blue cloth, though most did not wear a helmet. Some had swords and shields while others sported bows and quivers filled to the brim with arrows. More interestingly, all of the soldiers outside of the cell were nords with few exceptions.

"So how did they catch you," said the same old voice that had spoken to Jakson earlier.

Jakson looked at the old man, and the rest of the others bound in the cell. Like him, they were wearing what was obviously the armor of a legion. A flutter of panic reverberated through him as his mind began going over what it exactly it meant. Clearly they, as members of the legion, were being held as prisoner by some military force. Considering the makeup of the enemy soldiers, he guessed they had to be somewhere in Skyrim. But the camp, while seeming to be rather large, was poorly organized and the soldiers outside the cell seemed more like a militia than an army. So it seemed to him to be some sort of uprising, but he had not even heard of any issues in Skyrim. Most of the problems came from the southern provinces of the Empire. The north was secure and loyal.

Of course, there was also the question of why was he in a cell in legionnaire armor meant for light ground troops? He had just been in the Imperial City where he… Where he had been stabbed and killed. The memories flooded from his memory and made his stomach churned, threatening to release any contents it held within.

"They didn't cut out your tongue, did they, boy?" asked the old man again.

 _Okay,_ thought Jakson. _Pull yourself together. There will be time to figure out what's going on later._

"No," croaked Jakson in response. His throat was dry and needed water. "I'm fine. Where are we?"

"Where we are means you are not at all fine, boy," said the old man sternly. "But this is the man Stormcloak camp sieging Solitude, though I don't think they will have to keep up the siege much longer."

 _Solitude?_ Then he was definitely in Skyrim. But how had he gotten there.

"But, again, how did they catch you?" asked the old man again.

"I… I don't really remember," answered Jakson. Suddenly memories of being pulled from water and onto a boat came to the forefront of his mind. "I think I was pulled from the water."

"Don't remember?" asked the old man. Jakson nodded. "Well, you must of hit your head or something. Not really surprising since you've been sleeping all day since they brought you in early this morning. I was wondering if you would wake up or not. It probably would have been for the best if you didn't, boy."

"What do you mean?" asked Jakson. He did not want to come off as a clueless fool, though that is exactly what he was, but he needed information.

The old legionnaire laughed. "You know as well as I do that we have lost Skyrim to the damned Stormcloaks. And as soon as Solitude falls, it will be official." The man gave out a long sigh. "And they aren't exactly going to let us go, now are they. Maybe if we were Nords they would offer to let us join them, butting seeing as all of us in this cell are imperials, I don't think that's something we should hope for."

Jakson glanced around, and sure enough those inside the cells were imperials like him and the old man. "What are they planning to do with us, then?" asked Jakson.

"Since we're alive, nothing good," answered the old man. "Though I am sure we will see for ourselves before too long."

Their conversation broke down and silence hung in the air. Jakson looked around, trying to see as much as he could. Camp smells and noises filled the air. Around him were various blue tents, large enough so that he could really only see the sky above him though the openings in the cell. It had become darker since he had awoken, so it was definitely night and not the morning. But the sky was clear with only a handful of clouds drifting lazily through the night.

He looked at the old man sitting across from him. So many questions burned in his mind, demanding to be asked, but he held off most of them. He needed to understand his current situation so focus on figuring it out.

"So, about what you said earlier," started Jakson. "If they offered to let you join them, would you?"

The old man met his gaze and Jakson could see him mulling over the question. "Yes, I would."

"What about your loyalty to the legion?" asked Jakson. His question was neutral in tone. He did not want to come off hostile to the man, but the answer surprised him. At his age, the old man could only be in the legion as a veteran with many years of service. While some did not hold great esteem in their service, ones as old as him always did and the answer caught him off guard.

"Hah," scoffed the old man. "The legion is not what is use to be. Even before the Great War it was a shadow of its former self. The fact that we can't stop a few damned rebels shows that well enough. But it's more than that I suppose. There are some decent generals like Tullius, but most of our leaders couldn't care less about us. Why should we care about them and their wars that only do more harm than good."

 _Great War?_ What war the man was speaking of, Jakson did not know. He did not know a lot of things apparently. But the utter resignation the veteran soldier had in the legion hit him strong. Even during the turmoil after the Oblivion Crisis, the legion had been a strong and committed force. Where he was, whenever he was, that clearly was not the case. Of course, this was just one man. He would have to wait for more information before his final judgements.

"So why are they holding us here?" asked Jakson.

"I think we are about to find out," answered the old man motioning towards a few of the stormcloak soldiers that were moving toward their cell, the lead man carried a ring of keys.

The man holding the keys looked at the prisoners. He made eye contact with Jakson and Jakson held his stare until with a smile, the soldier broke it off. "Take them all," he ordered the others.

The other soldiers snapped into action as the speaker unlocked the cell door. The men streamed in. Some of the half dozen prisoners tried to fight, but they met their captors fists without mercy and were dragged out anyway.

One soldier came over to Jakson and without warning kicked him in the side, knocking him back into the mud. Grabbing the rope that bound Jakson's feet together, the soldier began to drag Jakson through the mud and out of the cell.

In this fashion, Jakson and the other five prisoners were taken away from their cell. A few tried to fight and for their reward they received kicks to the face by other soldiers watching the spectacle unfold. Those soldiers that watched on were excited with anticipation of what was to come, though Jakson still did not know what that something was.

As he was dragged, and even though he gave no protest, out of some cruel desire the soldier dragging him turned him over so that his front was down in the mud. Jakson spit and struggled to keep the thick mud out of his mouth and nose. If he tried to turn around or improve his position, he would feel a sharp kick to his head or his back. The pain merely added to his already sore body, but he kept it up. He refused to drown in the filthy mud that reeked of rot and waste.

This went on for mere minutes, but to Jakson it felt like hours. Finally, he came to a still only to be immediately hoisted to his feet. He knees threatened to buckle, but the firm grasp of his captors held him up. He tried to get the mud of his eyes, and when he could again clearly see, the moonlight showed a sight worth seeing.

They had been dragged outside of the camp and before them stood what was unmistakably the city of Solitude. Its regal demeanor extended from the mountain over the rock arch high above the river far below. The large city stood proud even as it was surrounded everywhere Jakson could view with his eyes. Lines of camps stretched all around the city, where the terrain permitted it, and there were even ships stationed below in the river, though they were not too close to be threatened by the city. It was a siege if there ever was one and it seemed to be one that had been going on for some time. He could only imagine how the tens of thousands locked within the large stone walls of the city had been faring during that time.

Memories of his last and only visit to Solitude flashed through his mind. He preferred the grand picture painted by his memories compared to what he now saw. The walls had taken repeated pummeling. A few towers had collapsed. Even the banners of the city that hung at the city gate were in horrible shape, most of them looking as though they had been burned. But still, the city still stood. But for how much longer?

His thoughts returned to his immediate situation as pain in the backs of his legs caused him to fall to his knees. To his right was the old soldier he had spoken with in the cell. To his left was a legionnaire he could not even guess to know.

In front of them rode two figures on horses the size of small houses. With a bear banner painted in white and blue at their backs, the two figures stepped down from their horses, a few yards from Jakson and the other prisoners. What Jakson presumed to be the leader of the two stepped forth. Middle aged, and with long, brown hair, the nord wore a fur trimmed cloak. Behind him stood an older nord, wearing what seemed like officer armor that he had seen other soldiers wearing within the camp, as well as a bear hood. The dead bear's face was almost as fierce as the old nord that wore it.

"You're a blasted traitor, Ulfric Stormcloak! May the gods damn you to oblivion," shouted on of Jakson's fellow prisoners off to his right. The sound of a heavy thud came with a splash as Jakson saw the man who had yelled fall into the mud a few feet away. The captor that had hit him then proceeded to step on the back of his head, pushing him deep down before finally dragging him back up. A few more hits were given to the man's face after that.

The man that stood in front of them, Ulfric Stormcloak, acting as though the demonstration never happened and he continued to look upon his prisoners before he spoke. "Once, we offered you imperials the chance to lay down your arms and leave Skyrim in peace," he said. "You refused and now, you few are our prisoners. But there is still good you can do for your fellow-"

Ulfric was interrupted as four people rushed up to him on horseback. The lead horse reared up on its hind legs as its rider pulled hard on the reins willing it to stop. The others quickly came to a halt behind.

"By Talos, Marcurio" shouted Ulfric at the lead rider as the horse settle down right in front of him. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Jarl Ulfric," began the imperial, Marcurio. His tan robes were wet and dirty. "Our assault on Castle Volkihar was a failure. Isran and most of his force has fallen. Those of your men that survived have returned to you camp in desperate need of healing."

"Why is that Dragonborn not telling me this?" asked Ulfric, and obvious distaste for the imperial rider was apparent in his voice.

There was a silence that hung in the air for few seconds too long. Shadows filled the faces of the riders as their eyes tilted down towards the ground.

"The Dragonborn has been slain," answered Marcurio. "Along with three of his followers. Only us four and a men of yours and the Dawnguard managed to make it alive."

"Slain? The Dragonborn?" stuttered Ulfric. "How is that possible."

"It was a trap," answered Marcurio. "Someone betrayed us! I would carefully evaluate your men to make sure the traitor is not within your ranks." Marcurio turned his horse around.

The other three followed suit. Jakson eyed them with curiosity. The three other riders were all women. Two were nords like Ulfric. One wore an battle ready tunic and had striped tattoos laid across her face. The other had on a heavy set of iron armor and a great sword on her back. Her blond hair was as dirty as the rest with her, dull with mud. The last rider was a dunmer, equipped with a set of leather armor. Among all those on horseback, she was easily the most fearsome.

The group started to ride off, but Ulfric called out to them before they moved to far. "Wait, Marcurio! Where are you going now?"

"I've said all I needed to say to you. We are returning to Fort Dawnguard to regroup with those willing," shouted Marcurio over his shoulder to the jarl. "Your men fought bravely, Jarl Ulfric, but I doubt your entire army would be enough now. We must prepare." With that, the imperial shook the reins and his horse jumped into a gallop. The other riders quickly followed and soon they were out of sight. But just before they were gone, the woman with the tattoos over her face turned, and for the briefest second looked into Jakson's eyes. Then she too, was gone.

The stormcloak soldiers behind Jakson mumbled at the revelation revealed by the riders.

"The Dragonborn is dead?" asked one of the soldiers. "But how? He led over five thousand men to the vampire nest!"

"Talos save us," said another soldier. "The attacks will only grow worse now."

A shroud of dread washed over the men standing over Jakson and the other prisoners. Even Jarl Ulfric looked deep in troubled thought. But eventually, they shook out of it as their attention was brought back to the prisoners, Jakson included.

"With another rising threat we face, it seems as though we should get on with this," said Ulfric. "With the end of this siege comes the end of the war, and the quicker the better. And you imperials will help us with that. You will serve as an example to your fellows of what will happen to them if they do not cast down their arms and surrender. I do not want to spill anymore blood, but if we are forced to take the city by force, I will kill every legionnaire down to the last man as an example. Only through an act of desperate cruelty can I hope for them to see reason and save their own lives. And you will deliver this."

With that, Ulfric gave a nod and Jakson was knocked to the ground along with the other prisoners. Quickly, they were dragged in the mud. Jakson, like before, did not resist. Then he saw their destination and he started to thrash and try to fight as hard as the other prisoners. His body was so sore, and his mind was foggy. It was difficult to concentrate. He could feel the magicka inside of him. It was so close, but he just could not focus enough to reach it.

Looking around, the only one of his fellow prisoners that did not fight was the old man from before. He was limp, resigned to his fate. Jakson refused to follow his lead, but try as he might, he was as easily thrown into the bucket of the catapult along with the rest.

The wooden bucket was too deep and he could not lift himself over the edge to escape. But he only had to lay there for a second before he heard the command be given.

With a force that almost knocked him again unconscious, Jakson was thrown into the air. As though fate wanted to drag the moment on as long as possible, it allowed time to slow down for Jakson. He streamed through the air and could easily spot the others that shared his fate as they flew at his side. They had been given no gags so the screams of the flying men could easily be heard as they arched. Looking forward, he could see the city of Solitude, open for them to the sky above. He was heading for the very center. Below him, the streets were empty except for a few soldiers on patrol.

While he thought he was the only one that did not scream though the air, as he looked to his right he realized the old man was equally silent. He looked so peaceful, so resigned and ready for death. It disgusted Jakson!

He would not give up! He had no idea what was going on, in what time he was or how he had arrived here. But he had felt himself die in center of the Imperial City at the hands of a traitor he had called a friend. He felt the life leave him when blackness wrapped around him as his blood bled from his body. He refused to experience that again. He would not die!

With all his will and might he screamed into himself, desperately trying to reach his magicka just outside of his reach. He could feel the warm of its power, and as he came ever closer to the city below, he fought for it like a man dying of thirst would fight for the smallest bead of water.

Closer and closer the city came, and he so desperately stretched and tried to hold his power. Like the rest, Jakson finally let out an audible scream. But this was not a scream of fear; it was one of defiance!

Like a dam bursting, he felt his magicka pour out into him and through his limbs. With is wrists still bound, he pushed his hands forward and concentrated all his energy into a barrier. He zoomed past towers and the taller buildings, aiming straight and true for a small market opening in the city. Beside him, though barely audible, he could hear the screams of the others be snuffed out as they made contact with some of the structures that reached into the sky, stopping their victims from hitting the ground but were no less merciful.

The cobblestones rushed towards him with great definition. He could see the individual cracks and specs of dirt each had as he slammed hard into them. The cobblestones turned to dust at the impact, and Jakson was thrown back into the air as his magical shield burst between him and the ground, its power pushing him up.

With a hard knock, Jakson hit the ground again, this time without a shield. He rolled hard before his back slammed into a wall which brought him to a full spot.

His body screamed in agony. Easily he could tell more than one bone had been broken and blood gushed out of the many scrapes and cuts that covered his exposed flesh.

But he was alive, and that fact allowed the curve of a smile to come to life on his face. Imperial soldiers, most dressed in armor similar to the leather armor he was wearing, came rushing to the square. Seeing that he was alive they immediately called for a healer, but a few of them focused on a different subject laying in a sport a good few yards ahead of Jakson.

That spot was where the old man had landed. His body had burst on the ground like a ripe melon, but his head was still intact. And the eyes… they stared at Jakson and looked as though they still held the barest spark of life. Then the whatever spark remained was gone and Jakson simply gazed at another corpse.

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It's always fun when catapults are properly utilized for terror campaigns, right?

Leave a comment to tell me your view on how to properly use a catapult and please follow and favorite if you haven't done so already. Your support means the world!


	3. Chapter 2

The story continues! I hope you enjoy and feel free to leave a review to tell me what you think. Also, if you like the story, go ahead and follow and favorite. Your support means a lot!

* * *

Chapter 2

Once again, Jakson was bound and a prisoner, though thankfully at least his legs were free and he was not in a muddy cell. Furthermore, he thought that he was in a better position than he had been in the Stormcloak camp, at least to the point where he was confident he would not be launched out of a catapult.

After he had landed following his first, and hopefully last, experience with a catapult, he had been treated by a healer before being placed in a restraints and hauled into a small room and ordered to sit in a chair as various people came and went from the room trying to identify him. Just as the Stormcloaks had done, the Imperial defenders of Solitude had labeled him a deserter, which was something that was becoming common among the defenders as food stores wore thin and hungry soldiers try to flee a cause they did not particularly care for.

So Jakson sat in his chair and waited as each of his visitors came into the room, gave him a hard look, and then left. Apparently, none of his guests recognized him, as others of all ranks kept coming in over the course of a few long hours that stretched though the dark night.

Finally, sunlight began to shine through the room's small window signaling the night was finally over. Jakson still had no idea what was going on or what had happened to him. He knew where he was, and had had a good view from the air over the city, but it was obvious that his location in time was different. But, at the end of it all, he was alive. Whatever had put him here had given him back his life, or at least a new version of it. He would make the best of it that he could. As more people came and left, his thoughts began to center on the state of the Imperial Army besieged in Solitude, and the health of the Empire as a whole. He had not asked any questions about the state of Tamriel, scared of both what his ignorance might show and the answers that his questions would be met with, but as each second passed, his hunger for answers grew.

As the sunlight further stretched into the room, the door opened once again. In walked a tall imperial adorned in imperial officer's heavy armor, its bronze, gold and crimson coloring reflected the morning sunlight that landed upon it. The man himself had dark eyes and short, grey hair. As two others soldiers stepped in behind him, the imperial officer walked to Jakson, stopped right in front of him and stared down at him with a hard gaze.

"I find it curious that none of my men have been able to identify you, soldier," said the man as he looked down a Jakson and spoke with a voice full of authority. "Those that were… sent to the city along with you were all identified as deserters from this city, yet even though you were among them and wear our armor, none of my people can tell me who you are. Considering that the only imperial force in all of Skyrim is right here in Solitude, why don't you enlighten me as to who you are."

Jakson wasted no time saying what he had already said numerous times. "As I told the others, the last thing I remember is being pulled from the water, knocked out, and then waking up in a cell inside of the Stormcloak camp," said Jakson. He, of course, remembered much more than that but was not going to speak a word of it. He doubted that they would believe him, and depending on exactly when he was, his name might not even be remembered.

"What's your name?" asked the officer.

"Jakson," he answered.

"'Jakson' what?" asked the officer. "Your an imperial and speak like one so you should have a surname."

"I… don't remember," answered Jakson. It was another lie but, again, one he felt was best to make. Regardless, it did not seem to make the officer questioning him happy. "And while I cannot recall my full name or any real memory, I know that my devotion to the Empire is true, and I would never desert it or the legion. I am at your disposal, sir."

His passion was strong, but the officer just looked down on him. "My men saw you fly into the city and survive the fall by using your magic. That is not a feat that even talented mages can manage. Without a doubt, you would definitely be an asset to us at this time." The officer paused and a small smile came to his lips. Jakson felt a beat of hope that he would be released and freely allowed to understand what was going on, but then the smile vanished. "However, the best guess that I can make is that you are most likely a Stormcloak soldier sent here to infiltrate our ranks and do what damage you could. This might not necessarily be the case and you may be innocent, and understand that that doubt is the only reason why you are not being marched to the gallows, but I cannot risk the defense of the city by allowing you to move among us if there is a chance someone of your power could cause trouble." He turned to the other two soldiers. "Escort him to the dungeon." With that, the officer turned to leave and began walking to the door.

"What's your name?" asked Jakson. His voice came off much cooler than it had a moment earlier, and his own authority bled through. He would be damned if he did not at least know the name of the person that sent him to a dungeon. Especially because of how much he hated being stuck in them.

The officer stopped and then slowly turned around. "I am General Tullius, commander of the Imperial Army of Skyrim."

"I see. Thank you, General," said Jakson. "I won't cause any trouble, but if your needs become pressed, you'll know where to find me."

Tullius looked at him for a moment, another small smile tugging at his rigid face, then turned around and made his way out without a word. And as Jakson had said, he did not cause any trouble as the soldiers led him from the room down into the dungeons.

They came to a stop in front of a dark wooden door. One of the soldiers took out a key and opened it allowing another to lead Jakson through. Once they were in, they undid the restraints around his wrists and left him to his new quarters.

As Jakson surveyed his new surroundings, he was surprised by how fortunate he was. The room was large and thankfully dry. There was an actual bed along with a table with chairs and a chamberpot in the corner. He knew that the dungeons had many cells that were far smaller and easily worse. While General Tullius believed he was most likely a Stormcloak agent, it seemed that the doubt that Jakson was not such a person cautioned the General into treating him somewhat well in the even he was needed.

Jakson pulled out one of the chairs from the table and sat down and began going over in his mind everything that had occurred since he had been pulled out from the water.

-)(-

Hours turned into days as Jakson sat patiently in the dungeon, though he was rarely left alone for too long. Various figures within the legion came to him, including Legate Rikke, a nord who served as the general's second in command. Their time had been spent by her asking question and him answering, mostly about the Stormcloak camp outside the city, though those questions were more or less exhausted after the first day.

They had taken it as a shock when he reported that the person that was referred to as the Dragonborn was killed. Of course, he was that was in for the surprise when he learned who exactly the Dragonborn was and how he had come about, which was as a champion to combat ancient dragons that had risen from their old graves.

As a child, he had always loved stories of dragons and their battles with ancient men, as most children did, and he found himself genuinely enjoying the tales told by the legion soldiers about what had been occurring in Skyrim over the past few months. The Dragonborn seemed an exception figure, one mirroring Tiber Septim himself, as Jakson was told of his exploits. From slaying dragons and taking their souls to venturing into Sovngarde to defeat Alduin alongside heroes of old, the Dragonborn was obviously a figure admired by the people, even within the legion, a force he had helped bring to its knees by aiding the stormcloaks in their rebellion. It was clear that his death was the end of someone that truly made a difference in the world. For the Empire, though, it was a difference that could prove to be its undoing.

The days stretched on and Jakson began to request pieces of information about the outside world without coming off as too suspicious. Mostly, asking about their lives or where they were from. But he also was able to get ahold of some books, which, due to his good behavior and friendly demeanor, was allowed. He requested anything about the world as it was and recent history, a desire he explained was due to his amnesia, and what he found made him wish he truly had amnesia

The Empire he had known, the state he had fought for, was nothing but a shadow of its former self with none of its glory. Reading the history books, he learned of what had happened after that fateful night where he, Ocato and the other councilors were assassinated. The Empire of Tamriel was in shambles. The Thalmor had risen up in the south and broken away form the Empire. Morrowind, while still officially a province, had continued to slip from the Empire's grasp and was only part of it in name.

The most tragic historical tale came from recent history of the Great War, where the weakened empire fought against the superior Thalmor. The war amounted to a win for the Thalmor, and it had cost the Empire Hammerfell which had broken away from the Empire to continue the fight when the latter had made piece with the Thalmor as well as the effects of the White-Gold Concordant. Now, with Skyrim's succession all but inevitable, The Empire was about to lose one of its last two remaining provinces outside of Cyrodiil. While High Rock would remain, the fact that it would be separated from Cyrodiil made Jakson doubt it would be part of the Empire for long.

In reality, the Empire of Tamriel was dead. Before his death it had been disintegrating, and while there was still hope, it seemed that hope had died with Ocato. As he thumbed through the growing pile of books that rested on his table, an idea began to form that maybe he was brought to this time for a reason.

He was still himself and had all his memories. Even his power had been returning to him, though it still had some way to come. And when he had first undressed himself after arriving in the dungeon, he had noticed two faint scars on his stomach. They were exactly where the bound swords had cut through him at the hands of Bothiel in the palace. But the reason for his current predicament, he did not know. He could not even begin to guess.

So he listened to the stories of the guards, and read over the books he had been allowed. One held within a recent description of Solitude and its layout. Of course, he had seen the stormcloak camp first hand and he knew it was only a matter of time till the city fell and the Empire's presence in Skyrim came to a close.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that he could make a difference in this time that was centuries after his own. He did not have much faith in the divines, though there seemed to be one less in today's world, but he did have faith in himself.

-)(-

Even in the dungeons, Jakson could feel the walls shake. It was already well into the afternoon and the assault had been pounding since dawn. And while the outnumbered legionnaires defended against the invading stormcloaks, he had been down in the dungeons, uselessly waiting. When one of the guards had told him that the assault had begun, he sat in one of the table chairs and began his wait. He still wore the imperial light armor that he had been found in when he had been pulled out of the water and as the dungeon shook again and dust from the ceiling settled on the furniture and floors, his mind drifted to the interesting fact that he was found in such armor.

Over the past few days, that fact had constantly wormed his way inside of his mind. Of all the apparel in the world, he found himself in imperial armor. He did not care much for the divines, but with Martin's sacrifice he had seen their power first hand. He also understood the power of the deadra very well. He knew that his arrival in his current time was due to some higher being's influence, but he did not know their intention. But the armor he had woken up in might be a clue. But that was speculation, and once again he dismissed it from his mind as it could bring him nothing productive without something else to go on.

Another shake of the dungeon arrived as shouts and the clanging of steel echoed from the other side of the heavy wooden door that separated his dungeon cell from the hallway on the other side. Yells of the rage only found by men and women in combat for their very lives quickly followed. Jakson stood up, ready for what was to come.

He had hoped that someone would have come and given him the opportunity to help with the city's defense, but he had been left alone. However, what he had said to Tullius was true, he was loyal to the Empire. While he did not truly know what the Empire truly was, though it was certain it had fallen a long way, he would serve it and if he found it lacking, then he would reform it.

The immediate sounds of combat died down on the other side of the door. One of the two sides had won. However, the fact that the enemy had even managed to penetrate so far into Castle Dour did not bode well for the defenders. His patience was wearing thin, but as he settled on seeing himself out and siding with the legion with the defense, whether they wanted him or now, the door shook with impact.

It was not the impact like he had heard before, but it was one that was directly hitting the door itself. Again and again the door shook, each time it came closer to being forced open. A few shouts came from the other side and then with a splintering crack, the door bursted open.

"Well, what do we have here," asked one of the three stormcloak soldiers that stood in-between the other two. "Are you trying to hide from us, or did your cowardly brothers put you in here themselves." The stormcloak was clearly assuming that Jakson was in some way part of the legion due to his armor.

"It doesn't matter," said one of the other two soldiers. "He wears their armor and he's an imperial. Let's finish this off." The lust of blood played freely in speakers' eyes.

Nothing else was said and the three soldiers charge Jakson in union, unanimously agreeing with the last words spoken.

Jakson wore only light armor and held no weapon at his side, but felt no intimidation from the three soldiers. He stood his ground and willed his magicka to obey him. In his right hand a shadowy blade formed out of the air as his left hand stretched to his attackers with flames licking his fingers. He let the flames loose and a quick wall of fire leapt from his hands towards the soldiers. The soldiers wore light armor and in their charge they barely managed to put their arms in front of their faces before fire burned into their flesh, not that they could have done much to help their situation in the first place.

The men fell to the floor unable to scream as the flames seared their lungs. Jakson moved towards them quickly and as he came upon the burning men writhing on the floor, he pierced each of them once with his summoned sword. Each man stilled as they were robbed of their life and the smell of their burning bodies filled the room.

Jakson quickly stepped around the bodies and into the dungeon hallway. Blood stained the floors as it drained from the few corpses left on the ground. Both imperial and stormcloak made up the dead, but he only recognized the legionnaires. He had spent the past few days getting to know them, their names, their stories, and now they laid dead before him. Such was the unforgiving nature of war.

Half a dozen stormcloaks stepped around a corner not far from him. They looked at their dead and then at Jakson. Their eyes turned to stone as they looked upon the man they believed to be the enemy. With only a primitive cry, they charged towards Jakson. Again, Jakson used flames to attack. Two of the men fell to their knees, their position at the front being their poor luck, but the rest kept coming.

His summoned blade met their mortal metal as he fended off the four soldiers. They fought like a band of bandits rather than with the coordination of a military force. Their attacks came at him wildly and presented their fellows with as much danger as they did to Jakson. But, even though they had more numbers, they were not a match.

Jakson brought his sword down and one man fell before Jakson swiped to the left and a second man quickly joined the first on the ground. He raised his sword and blocked the strike of a greatsword wielded by one of the two remaining stormcloaks. Theirs swords grinding against each other before Jakson guided the enemy sword safely to his side before angling his own and stabbing the man in the throat. Blood rushed from the wound and coated Jakson's armor and face.

Upon seeing the quick death of his compatriots, the last soldier turned to run, but Jakson would not let him. He grabbed the mans' shoulder and held it firmly in his grasp as he rammed his sword through the man's back. He pulled out the sword and the last man fell. He did not waste a second and stepped over the now dead man towards the two that had been burned. One was already dead, and with a quick stab of Jakson's sword, so was the other one.

As the walls once again shook, Jakson could hear the sound of a battle coming from the outside, even though he was so deeply in the dungeon. He wasted no time and kept his sword at the ready as he headed for the exit.

-)(-

With a heave, Jakson pushed open the heavy doors that led from the dungeon to the outside world. Sunlight was the first thing to hit his face, allowing the blood on his face to shimmer. He had been thankful that he had not run into any other enemies during his ascension, but as he gazed out into the fortress' bailey, he knew that his luck had evaporated.

Among the tall, damaged walls of Castle Dour, hundreds of men massed together in a mob of violence. Screams of anger, pain and fear emanated from deep within as the overwhelming number of stormcloaks beat the imperial defenders to pulp. And those assaulting the imperials were not just stormcloak soldiers, but common citizens as well, each with a blue piece of fabric wrapped around one of their arms. There were no citizens on the side of the legionnaires.

"Retreat," yelled an imperial soldier with an old voice as even more stormcloaks poured through the castle gates from the market district of Solitude.

Those that could turned to run, but as they did many found a stormcloak blade piercing their backs. The stormcloaks hollered and flung insults at their enemy, and pushed even harder as they chased their fleeing prey.

Seeing that the battle for the castle was lost, Jakson turned to join the fleeing defenders and ran towards the castle's northern gate that was still free from the stormcloaks. But as he did so, he found a group of imperial soldiers with their backs to the castle walls and stormcloaks closing in on their front. Their were easily four dozen legionnaires, many already injured, but they were all dead men. It was only a matter of time.

 _No,_ decided Jakson.

He rushed towards the backs of the stormcloaks facing the trapped imperials. He let his summoned sword go and he gave more energy into his plan of action. His hands glowed as he poured magicka into them, the flesh on his hands tingling as it became flush with energy. There were over fifty of the enemy and he knew he would not be able to hold them for long in his current state where the full extent of his power still refused to bow to him.

With a yell he let his his magicka go. There were no lightning bolts, flames or bolts of frost, but the effects of his casting were just as noticeable. The stormcloaks that had just been pushing against the imperials and yelling at them stilled and became silent, their eyes wide open and looking around in sudden fear as many of them fell over like wooden boards. Jakson kept his fists clenched as he held his spell of paralysis over the soldiers. His body strained and he knew he was not yet at his full power, but he would hold.

"I cannot hold them for long," yelled Jakson to the trapped legionnaires. They looked at him and then back at their enemy. They did not need to be told what to do.

In better times, mercy and compassion, or at least stale honor, would prevail, but this was a time of desperation. The legionnaires grabbed their weapons and went to work against the paralyzed stormcloaks, slaughtering them.

When those he held were dead or close enough, Jakson let his spell go and moved towards the legionnaires. It was only a matter of time before more of the enemy came to avenge their fallen fellows.

"Stand still," ordered Jakson with a voice full of authority as he raised his hands over the men. His palms glowed bright with light for a second before it began to expand over him and the men in front of him and the men sighed as they felt themselves becoming healed, not fully, but enough to make a difference. "Now tell me, what is the condition of the city's defense."

The soldiers were quite for a moment before one spoke up. "Castle Dour is lost, sir. Our standing orders are to fall back to the noble district."

Jakson was glad the soldier had given him the honorific. Them thinking he was their superior would make things much easier. "Then let us move out," he ordered.

He quickly organized the men. He selected few of them to be scouts and lead them through the dangerous sliver of streets that separated the castle from the gates to the noble district. His healing spell had made sure made sure most could walk, but many were still not capable of combat and a small few still had to be carried. He kept them in the middle. Had he the time and energy, he could have restored the force to full health, but time and energy were two resources he could not spare too much of in their present situation.

The small group of legionnaires led by Jakson quickly set off and followed the scouts. Back in the bailey, the sounds of legionnaires fighting against the stormcloaks continued, but even with Jakson's power and his new men, he decided taking Dour was a lost cause as he saw the last of the legionnaires fall to stormcloak steel. He called out to his men and ordered them to pick up the pace to the castle gate, as they were still unseen by the stormcloaks in the distance.

They passed through last free gate of Castle Dour. A few legionnaires still stood guarding it. The dead of both legionnaire and stormcloak were spread at their feet. Holding the gate had clearly been costly. Jakson called out to the last of the legionnaires to group with him and the others, and without hesitation they joined the group as it made it way into the merchant district of Solitude.

Past the heavy walls of Castle Dour, the sounds of the city in the throes of the assault became easily heard to even the dullest ear. Screams and shouts, cries of rage and cries of blood echoed throughout the narrow city streets. The smell of burning wood and flesh only added to the deplorable situation of the city.

And though it all, the men Jakson now commanded carefully stepped through the alleys of the market district. They were spread thin and scouts were on every side, making sure that their vulnerable situation was not too easily exploited.

As Jakson led at the front of the group, he passed through an intersection and was able to get a brief glimpse of the inner gates of the city that marked the entrance into the noble district. The gate wall barely rose over the wood and stone buildings of the market district. The wall was not nearly as strong as the city walls or those of the fallen Castle Dour, but hopefully it would be enough to buy them some time, if nothing else.

Jakson whipped his head to the right as a bang exploded loudly in the small alley. The men jumped, but quickly stilled and readied their swords as Jakson raised his right hand and let it glow with fire. His eyes quickly settled on the source of the interruption. Three young men stood at the threshold of the building with the open door, surprise on their youthful faces.

But though they were youthful in appearance, they held swords in their hands, swords stained with flesh blood. Around their necks and on their fingers were the rich assortments of jewels, but their most important accessory was the blue piece of fabric that each sported around one arm. It was the sign of the citizens that had risen up in aid of the stormcloaks. More importantly, it seemed as though they had done so just to fill their pockets with a few coins and cause deathly trouble for their fellow city dwellers.

As one second of silence passed between the young men and their superior opponents, Jakson made eye contact with the legionnaire closest to the young men. The soldier clearly wanted to know what to do and deferred to Jakson. With a calm rationale, Jakson gave a curt nod and the legionnaire jumped at the young men followed by a few of those closest to him.

The young looters could not even react and went down with barely a cry, then the group of soldiers continued along their route and left the broken bodies behind. The bloody fate of the young men barely old enough to be called men did not hang around in Jakson's mind for a second more than necessary. They were looters and wore the color of the enemy. So they died like an enemy. At least it had been quick for them. While it was cruel, Jakson could not risk them potentially alerting a nearby forces of stormcloak soldiers and losing some, if not all of his men to a pointless engagement. The young men's lives, mostly due to their decisions, simply were not worth the risk.

Thankfully, there were not further interruptions and with a quick signal from the forward scouts that the thoroughfare was clear, Jakson and the legionnaires spilled onto the wide road from the dark alley. They wasted no time, and moved forward down the road over the short distance between them and the gate to the noble district.

But as they turned around a large inn, which sported a broken sign with a skeever carved onto it, the gate came into view, as did another challenge. Arrows flew down from the top of the wall that held the gate firmly closed as the legion guarded the pass with barely a dozen men. Against them were well over fifty stormcloaks that fired back arrows of their own as well as a few firebolts from a mage that was well guarded by the soldiers. Other stormcloaks bashed against the closed gate with a small battering ram while they held shields over their heads to protect them from above. The gate was slowly giving away and would clearly not last much longer.

The scene was still a good distance from Jakson and his men and they were not yet noticed by either the defenders or attackers. But as Jakson summoned back his sword and ordered his men to charge, the stormcloaks quickly took notice as the thundering forced rushed towards their exposed rear.

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And so ends Chapter 2. Follow or Favorite if you liked it and have not done so already. Thank you for reading and more will be uploaded before too long!


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